


The Devil Is in Your Kitchen; She's Coming Through Your Walls

by alicekittridge



Series: Visions of the Past, Glimpses of Life [2]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Graphic Violence, POV Second Person, POV Third Person, Present Tense, Underage - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alicekittridge/pseuds/alicekittridge
Summary: The relevance of kitchens.





	1. Silver Glimpses

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by London Grammar’s Oh Woman Oh Man. 
> 
> This work is basically me finally indulging in my desire to write about another event in Villanelle’s past; I’ve wanted to write about her and Anna for a long time but never quite figured out how to do it. Therefore, the work is flagged as underage because of the beginning, which explores Villanelle’s relationship with Anna; keep in mind that she’s like, seventeen when this happens. If this doesn't sit well with you, you may avoid this work or skip the beginning until you see a horizontal line. There’s also graphic violence, and quite a bit of sexual content. 
> 
> All mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Dedicated to t-ninja, who is kind enough to read all my ramblings and little snippets and give me encouragement; and also to my readers. You make it possible for me to write these things!

_Stainless steel, the beautiful murderer_

**_Oksana_ **

“Oh dear, you’re sopping!”

            Anna ushers you in with hurried gestures, the ones that mean she’s concerned about something. The apartment smells of dinner and cake. The lights, despite their yellowness, are warm. You take your shoes and coat off and let her wrap you in a towel. “Where was your umbrella?”

            “The rain was relentless,” you say. “Umbrellas can only do so much.”

            “Well sit down and warm up a minute. It’s almost ready.” She brings you tea too, kneels so that she’s at eye level with you. The hand on your knee is casually placed but it sends sparks launching through your chest. “Max is very excited to meet you.”

            The sparks stop. “Max?” you say. You know perfectly well who he is. His picture hangs on the wall in the entryway and is also on the nightstand beside the bed. He’s also the man to whom that ridiculous cactus chair belongs to. The one you’ve defiled with sweat and sex on a handful of occasions now. “You didn’t tell me I’d be meeting him.”

            “I wanted it to be a surprise,” Anna says, smile faltering at your tone. “I talk about you so much, you know, I thought perhaps it would be good for him to meet you. He calls you famous. A star student.”

            You scoff. Famous only because of schoolyard fights. A star student only in the field of languages. “I’m no one,” you say. “Why do you tell me that?”

            “Oh, hush, Oksana.” Anna gives your arm a shove with the hand that was on your knee. “You may feel like no one now but believe me, you’ll be someone.”

            Something swells inside your chest. You take her hand, hold it in yours. Nearly bring it to your mouth to suggestively kiss but a key rattles in the lock and the light dies away. Anna’s face breaks into a look of excitement and despite the steel settling in your insides you can’t help but latch on to that look. It’s an emotion that looks exquisite on her. She gets up to greet Max, her stocking-feet padding noisily across her floor. Despite the weather, she’s still in a knee-length skirt and turquoise blouse, minus the jacket she’d had slung over it hours earlier. It makes the darker tones in her hair stand out, makes her eyes bright—so easy to get lost in.

            “She’s just at the table,” you hear Anna say. Then a man you’ve only ever seen in photographs and heard about through stories comes into view. Receding hairline, glasses perched on his nose, clothes like a professor. He shrugs off his brown coat, tosses it over the inside of his elbow, smiles at you when your eyes meet. It’s meant to be the kind of smile you would show a stranger, kind and welcoming but somewhat guarded, designed to take some edge off. It only makes the steel grow heavier. He comes over, says, “Hello Oksana,” and offers you his hand. You don’t shake it. He retracts it slowly, clears his throat. “I’ve heard a lot about you. How gifted you are, especially with languages. You like French best, of the ones you’ve learned?”

            Silence.

            “Yes,” Anna says. “She speaks and writes it so well.”

            Max nods. He looks nervous. Good. “I’ll go change,” he says. “Dinner smells delicious.”

            Anna is the kind of woman whose meal plans change according to season. Winter is on the rapid approach, and so dinner consists of hot soups and other dishes made in the oven. She’d told you this when you first came over for extra lessons, in January. Tonight’s dinner is smoked salmon and a simple solyanka soup with bread on the side, milk, and cake. Anna brings the dishes out, laden with food, and goes back to get silverware. Even though the salmon is tender, she gives you a knife to cut it with, having observed your tendency for separation of foods during lunch hour. A toilet flushes, a door opens thirty seconds later, and Max, now dressed down in jeans and a sweater, sits in the chair across the table. Anna takes her customary place across from you, her stockinged foot brushing your own when she crosses her ankles.

            The silence feels like a wall, the clink of silverware, the chewing of salmon and slurping of soup and milk the sound of bricks being stacked. The food is delicious, as always, but the fact that Max is here makes it get stuck on its way down. You don’t like the way he chews. Or the way he wipes his mouth. Between cutting and eating your salmon, you study him, make your own conclusions. A seemingly kind but boring husband. Needs a better wardrobe when it comes to work things. A man who smacks his food and is probably a terrible performer when in bed and looks unpleasant when he orgasms. (You’ve seen boys who look pleasant, something about the eyes, or the way their chest heaves, but that’s all it is. Nothing that makes your eyes linger, nothing that makes you want to fuck them until they’re boneless and can barely speak. Like with Anna.) He’s probably not even on top. Probably doesn’t know what to do to Anna to make her shudder. Not like you do. You, who’ve known her only for a short while, have found the secrets of her body while a man she’s been married to for god-knows-how-long has found none of them. How satisfying that is. The poor bastard.

            “So,” Max says, breaking the long silence, “how did you get into languages, Oksana?”

            “I’m good at them.” The first words you’ve spoken to him all night.

            “Have you always been that way?”

            You don’t answer. There is nothing for him to know, not about your past. You turn to Anna and tell her, in French, “This is wonderful.”

            Her face turns a little redder. “ _Merci_.” She clears her throat. “I think she must’ve always been good at languages. Picked it up like that,” she snaps her fingers.

            “A natural talent. Very rare.” The words sound wrong, coming from him. Make you grind your teeth together. Anna’s foot brushes your shin. Your eyes meet. Hers hold a question. _Why aren’t you talking to him? Can’t you see he’s making good effort?_

            You don’t narrow your eyes at her, but you can see the dimming in hers. It looks a lot like disappointment, like the looks she gives you when you return from lunch hour with a new bruise or cut. Disappointment, and something else.

            “I’ve been fascinated by languages too,” Max continues, and delves into childhood stories and university stories. By then you’ve stopped eating your salmon. You hold the knife in your hand underneath the table, grip tightening until its wooden handle feels red-hot. You’re no longer thinking of Anna. Your fantasies are red and silver. You’re thinking of how many ways you could plunge the knife into him, where it would hurt most so that he would stop talking and scream instead.

 

            “What was that, Oksana?”

            You see Anna standing against the wall from your peripherals, blurred and out of focus, her arms folded over her chest. Max is gone; he usually has an outing with fellow male co-workers on Thursday nights and will not be back until two in the morning. The kitchen fills with tense silence, broken only by the hum of the overhead light and the sound of you doing dishes.

            “I don’t like him,” you tell her.

            “You know I had to make an excuse for your rudeness.”

            You know. You’d heard their murmured discussion by the door.

            “I don’t think she likes me much,” Max said.

            “Oh, nonsense. It takes her time to warm up to people.”

            “He’s a brute,” you say.

            Anna unfolds herself. Her voice is hard when she says, “I think you should leave.”

            You plunge the dishes back into the hot water, hastily dry your hands. Fueled by irritation, you step to her, trap her against the wall. “No,” you say lowly, “I think I should stay.” She’s fighting with herself, even when you slip a thigh between hers and your hands find her face. You kiss her, feel the desire she’s trying so desperately to tame. She moans when you bite her earlobe. “I make love better than he does.” She nods, unable to speak, her breath coming shorter. You take her hand, lead her into the sitting room, and shove her into the chair. The kisses that follow are clumsy, almost open-mouthed. You tear her blouse open, thankful these are snaps instead of buttons, and greedily, hungrily press your lips to her breasts, her nipples. Meanwhile your fingers unzip her skirt, tug it, her underwear, and stockings off. Your heart never fails to soar when she whispers your name when you first press inside her. It soars, still, when it’s your tongue instead of your fingers; you feel most alive when you have her like this, her fingers clenched in your hair, her chest heaving, the taste of her orgasms on your lips. You kiss her after a third and she whimpers, says, “Darling, I can’t, I can’t…” You pull her closer by the thighs, dig your nails into them, start again, looking up at her this time. Staring. Even in the awful yellow light she looks beautiful. You think you could taste her forever.

 

—

The rain has subsided into a drizzle. It sounds like TV static on your shared umbrella. You’re walking back from the school, taking in the late autumn weather, enjoying Anna’s company. Your hand is tucked inside her left elbow. Your gaits match so that no one lags behind.

            “There’s a concert tonight,” Anna says. “I was thinking of going.” She smiles. “I’m allowed a plus one, and I thought you’d like to come with me.”

            By now you’ve accompanied her to several concerts and one opera. The opera had been French, and you pretended to be invested when it didn’t capture your interest at all. It was where you’d set a hand on her knee, just below the hem of her dress, and where she’d taken it violently off and set it back in your lap. A first kiss, and a proper one weeks later, when she was bandaging a nasty cut on your brow and you couldn’t take it anymore. Several concerts followed and in the end, it was seduction. A hand on the knee, knuckles grazing over a breast on their way to fix the side of a jacket, until finally you had her.

            “It depends on the subject matter,” you say.

            “It’s Debussy.”

            “Oh dear,” you sigh dramatically, and despite herself, she laughs. “I only like—”

            “National anthems,” Anna finishes. “Yes, I know, you strange girl.”

            A few hours later you’re dressed in finer clothing, watching Anna pull on one of her fancier outfits: a silk blouse and nicer slacks. She steps into shoes and leaves her bedroom to fetch the light-colored coat from the hanger by the door.

            “We can listen to Debussy at home,” you protest.

            “French composers are much better when you hear them in a concert hall.” Anna shrugs the coat on, buttons it up. “Trust me, Oksana. It’s beautiful.”

 

            The concert hall is warm and packed with other well-dressed people. For some, it’s a mutual meeting-place, and their conversations are about their lives and the various events the friends they’ve come here with had missed. For others it’s a tradition or for fun. Anna goes because she enjoys it and believes you can experience classical composers just fine through headphones or over the radio but that a concert hall gives them a deeper meaning. You don’t really believe anything, just that the music has virtually no effect over you, doesn’t draw any emotion forward except impatience.

            Anna had purchased the usual tickets, which means you’re on the balcony, in the first row. It’s high up, and you can see the whole stage, if at a sort of angle. You take your seats and watch as the concert hall becomes filled. So many people. Debussy must be popular with them, just as Rachmaninoff had been. According to the program, the pianist is French, and the quartet that would later be joining him are from various countries: Austria, Iceland, Sweden, and Switzerland.

            “I think it’s only appropriate the pianist is French,” Anna says.

            “Wow. You have a French bias,” you say, almost teasing. “I’m sure an American or a Scotsman could play a Debussy piece as well as the Frenchman.”

            “Yes, well…” She trails off, twirls a strand of hair around her finger. “I’ve always loved France.” So much so, she once said, that if she had the money, she would drop everything and move there with Max. Leave Russia behind.

            Very quickly, the auditorium becomes packed and altogether too warm. You take your coat off, sling it over your lap. You move your legs against the seat so that another press of bodies can make their way past you. You always hope someone won’t sit next to you but someone always does. This time it’s an elderly woman with a too-strong floral perfume with opera glasses in one hand. You feel a little confidence swell within you; she won’t even see if your hand floats over to hold Anna’s.

            The concert starts as they usually do, and as soon as the pianist settles and plays the first few notes of a song you don’t know, Anna is already immersed. You see her fascination and focus out of the corner of your eye, her ears hanging on to every note and chord and progression. You look around the dark auditorium, scanning the faces, seeing similar expressions to Anna’s, some mouths slightly parted, others set in thin, concentrated lines. There are a few bored faces, masks telling that the person was dragged along. You don’t feel that way; you’re happy to accompany Anna anywhere she wants you, but you are quite bored. And sweltering. Mid-way through the first act, your thoughts have begun to wander to more intimate things, especially when Anna leans to you and whispers in your ear, “They make it look so easy, don’t they? So effortless. Like I could just sit down and let my fingers glide over the keys and out comes _Nocturne._ ”

            “They do make it look effortless,” you agree. Her eyes crinkle warmly, and she moves back to her seat but lets her arm stay by yours.

            _Nocturne_ is a more dramatic piece, not as appealing as _Clair de Lune_ or other piano pieces. You try to listen, get involved, but the music only makes you think of Anna and how much you’d rather not be here, makes you think of Max too, and how you imagined shutting him up with that stainless-steel kitchen knife. You latch onto those red thoughts, feeling an exciting, thrilling heat underneath your skin. What would it feel like? It must be a different sort of intimacy, the act of murder; straddling them, feeling them buck as they struggle, feeling submission, acknowledgement that they’re going to die. So different than sex.

            When the curtains fall to signal the intermission, you excuse yourself to the restroom, where you splash your face and neck with cold water, trying to calm your heart. Still your hands want Anna and to tear her shirt open; you want her close, inside you. Yet something else is becoming certain, too. You feel it like a building storm.

            Your hand settles on Anna’s knee during the second act. You feel the warmth of her skin even through her pants. She places your hand back in your lap, but then you return it, this time higher. You know nobody is watching. You lean to her and reach over like you’re fixing her jacket and cup her breast. She inhales. You feel her nipple, hardening underneath your touch. You don’t stroke it; that would be too obvious. She fixes her jacket and, with impressive subtlety, moves your hand away.

            “Not here,” she whispers. She crosses her legs, presses her thighs together. You wonder if she’d been thinking of you this entire time.

           

            You kiss her heatedly against her closed bedroom door, thankful that the curtains are closed. Corners of the room are dark; her yellow lamp creates a spotlight on the bed. Anna kisses back just as eagerly, and you wonder if it has something to do with the fact that Max is staying in the city for two days because of a work-related thing. You’ll get to stay the night.

            You slip a hand into her pants, humming when you feel her want. “So you were thinking about me,” you murmur, and her face turns redder. You kiss her, and then you propel her to the bed, climbing on top of her when she’s spread out.

            “Did you hate it?” Anna asks. She tries to help you with her shirt; you swat her hands away.

            “Yes.” You grip the top of her blouse and tear it open; Anna gasps; the buttons scatter across her floor. She isn’t wearing anything underneath it.

            “Oh my god,” she breathes, almost laughing, “those will take forever to sew back—”

            You kiss her again. “I hated it.” You drag yourself lower. “The sounds of your ecstasy are more beautiful than anything a French composer could write.” She makes a pleasured sound at your words. It turns into a moan when you kiss her breasts. You work her up in the way that she loves, and then you flip over so that she’s leaning over you. Her hair is wild, her eyes almost black; it takes the breath from your lungs.

            “Take off your clothes,” you say. You do the same with your own, tossing them towards the window. You’ve always liked seeing her undress. There’s something appealing about it, but you can’t really name it. Perhaps you just like to see her layers peeled away and how naked she can be with you, in more than the physical sense. You take her in your arms and sigh at the feeling of her. The want is unbearable, a fierce beat. You drag her hand to where you need it most.

            Her gentleness with you is what drags sex out, makes time feel like it’s stretching. You shut your eyes and you feel her kissing you, feel her fingers curling in just the right way. You shut your eyes and see Max with a knife in his chest, other spots of red spreading across his white work shirt. You shut them tighter and see him naked from the waist down while you use a sharpened knife to castrate him. It’s the moment orgasm hits.

            “You looked as if you were miles away,” Anna says a minute later, between kisses and wiping her hand on the sheets.

            “You sent me to Saturn,” you tell her, rolling over so that you’re straddling her thighs. Your blood is boiling. “You have something under your bed I want to use.”

            “How did you…?” She shakes her head. “Clever. So bright.” She’s breathless. How many times has she thought of being taken in that way? “Yes, okay.”

            It’s quick. You take it all in and revel in the position, the power, the fact that, in all the intimate moments between you, she’s all yours. You kiss her sweetly when it’s all over and leave the bedroom to get the both of you a glass of red wine.

 

—

Weeks later, Anna tries yet another dinner, and you play. You tell Max half-truths. It’s fun to see him buy them. You still don’t like him. You still don’t like the way Anna looks at him, the way her hand finds his on occasion.

            You begin to slack a little in your classes. You never really talk during them anyway, even when the teacher calls on you. You find yourself staring out the window and into the schoolyard, the other kids not there, your mind filled with thoughts of red warmth and sharp, cold greys. The sounds of death. These thoughts go for many days, accompanying you at night in your bed when before you would think of Anna. They fill you up until you’re certain your body will expand from its skeleton and become its own red splatter across the floor.

            Two weeks later you feign an illness. Anna wishes you well and still goes to the school to teach her classes. By now, you know that Max leaves for work later than she does. You walk to her apartment complex and hide behind a tall shrubbery, waiting for Max. The air is chilly and your breath is nearly visible. You rub your hands together. When Max emerges, you wait two whole minutes before following him. His walk to work is boring. Waiting around is boring too, and so you explore the shopping centers around the place, eventually stumbling upon a bakery. You browse the cakes, admiring the different colors and styles of decoration and different sizes. Beside one that’s the color of the sky on a clear day, there’s a picture of it in its large form: four tiers, like a wedding cake. The description says the size of that cake is perfect for gatherings and celebrations. The price is extravagant.

            “Does this one come in smaller sizes?” you ask the woman behind the counter.

            “You can get two tiers that’re half that size,” she replies. “I’m sure someone like you couldn’t afford the large one anyway.”

            You nod. “Quite right.” A plan is forming. “I’ll have to make some inquiries. Is it all right if I come back later?”

            “Of course.”

            Since it’s unlikely that Max will leave work anytime soon, you head into the city to wander. It’s been a long while since last you had a free day. Classes are sometimes enjoyable but routine can sometimes become monotonous. It’s good to upset the balance.

            There are several shops with expensive designer clothes on display. You pause to admire them and eventually end up inside one of those stores, fingers stroking expensive fabrics, body longing to wear them and own them. You have a few nice outfits, which was a radical change from the clothes you wore growing up: cheap shirts and secondhand sneakers and supermarket jeans—and always you longed for something nice. You try things on, admire your reflection in the mirrors, tempted to buy but knowing the money burning in your wallet should be saved for later. So you put everything back except a black tie meant for boys and purchase it, and then you return to the bakery to buy the sky blue cake with white accents and sunflower yellow dollops of frosting. It’s placed in a box and sealed well and then put into a paper bag with handles. Next you buy balloons to match the color of the cake. You take the train back to Anna’s apartment complex, laden with your purchases. No one gives a second glance; they think you’ve bought things for a birthday. At last you arrive and the sun has sunk even lower in the sky and the air is cold enough that you can see your breath clouding up in front of your face. You climb the stairs and find the spare key that Anna keeps above the door and let yourself in.

            First, you set the cake in the sitting area where it’ll be immediately noticed. You place the balloons in the kitchen and in the sitting area. The color looks awful next to the cactus chair. It’s oddly fitting.

            The stage is set.

            You check the home phone for messages; there’s one from Anna, about an hour ago, telling Max she won’t be home until at least 8:00, well after dinner. Damn papers to grade. Max will be home a little before dark. It gives you time to get a little dinner started. While it simmers, you open a bottom cabinet and tilt a skillet handle forward. Then you shut it and find a knife from the holder. You sharpen it while you wait, testing the edge against your thumb, sharpen it some more, test it, until the edge is sharp enough to leave a bleeding cut. You’re putting it back in its holder when you hear a key scratching in the lock. You quickly tie Anna’s ridiculous apron around your waist and stir dinner.

            “Hi darling,” Max calls from the doorway. You hear him hanging up his coat and taking his boots off. “Smells nice.” He walks to the kitchen and you turn just as he looks up, feeling heat course through your gut when he jumps. “Oh god,” he says. “Hello Oksana.”

            “Hello.”

            “She uh… she didn’t say anything about you being here.” He takes in the balloons in the kitchen and the sitting room. “What’s with the stuff?”

            “It’s a celebration.”

            He laughs. His smile is both nervous and kind. “Oh yeah? And what’re you making?”

            “Soup. You can taste it if you’d like.” You get a little on the spoon and offer it to him, stepping aside so that he can lean over the pot. You lean against the counter, feel for the edge of the cabinet that holds the skillet. You wrap your hand around the handle.

            “It needs a little salt,” Max says, “but it’s good.” He sprinkles some in, stirs it. “What’s the celebration for?”

            “This.” With a blur, you swing the skillet up and hit him on the side of the head. It isn’t enough force to crack his skull; just enough to leave him disoriented and limp with shock. He crashes to the floor and you’re thankful of the rug in front of the stove. You put the skillet back, turn the burner off. You search him and take his cell phone away. Then you heft Max up by the armpits and drag him into Anna’s bedroom, depositing him on the bed. His breathing is heavy. His eyes are misted over. The right side of his head is angry red, and a cut is bleeding freely. Head wounds bleed excessively. You go back to the kitchen and fetch your sharpened knife and grab duct tape from a drawer in the sitting room. By the time you return to the bedroom, Max is a little less disoriented, but still moving slowly. You shut the door and sit at the end of the bed, bringing the knife into plain view, twirling it between your fingers.

            “What’re you… doing?” Max questions. “What… do you want?”

            “I’m having a little episode, Max.” His face twists into an expression of fear and confusion. You chuckle. “I’m joking. No breakdowns.”

            “What do you want?” he asks again. “Money?”

            “Money would be nice, but it’s not important.” You sigh deeply and climb onto the bed, leaning over him. “I want your wife.”

            Heavy breathing. Silence. Then, “What?”

            “I’ve already had her, actually. Mostly in bed. You know how exquisite she looks when she orgasms?”

            He lunges. You dodge, break his nose. He lands back on the pillows with a soft cry. His eyes are watering and there’s bright blood spilling between his fingers. Your heart is hammering at this thrill. You lean into him so that you’re inches from his face.

            “She loves me,” you murmur. “I see it when she looks at me. She doesn’t even have to say it.” Some emotion is swimming in his eyes, one you can’t identify. Something like hurt, or betrayal, or confusion. “And I love her. Shouldn’t two people in love be together?” He starts to fight again; you press the knife against his throat and he is still. “Oooh, feisty. You don’t want to make my hand slip.” A smile breaks your mouth open. “You’re just baggage. A little wall.” His Adam’s apple bobs and oh dear, he’s actually started to tremble.

            “Please,” Max whispers. “What do you want?”

            You reach down with one hand and start to undo his belt. When it becomes apparent that one hand isn’t enough, you sigh, tell him, “Help me, please?” He reaches down and slides his belt out, unzips the zipper. “Take them off.” He does. You toss his pants and underwear to the foot of the bed. Then you get the roll of duct tape and tear two strips off.

            “What do you want?” he repeats.

            “Your penis.” You tape his mouth shut; his protests are merely grunts with the duct tape in place. He’s sweating and crying and his face is caked with blood from his broken nose. He stops fighting, suffering from deer-in-the-headlights syndrome; his limbs shake like he has hypothermia. You wield the kitchen knife and position yourself between his legs and oh, the sharp blade cuts through skin and muscle and nerves like a dream, and his screams are better in real life. Blood slicks your hands, stains the sheets. You’re glad to see his face contort with white-hot pain and grow paler. When it’s severed you watch the blood flow freely and watch the shock settle in. He gets paler and paler. Behind his glasses, his eyes dim. You know he is going to die. You’ll stay for every slow minute of it. Your body is singing, filled with a sort of elation that only violence can bring out, and it feels better than sex, better than all the hard orgasms you’ve ever had, by your hand or someone else’s. You gaze into Max’s eyes as his breathing slows. The light in them is retreating, going inward.

            And then it’s gone.

            You let out a laugh. It’s done. He’s gone. There is no wall between you and Anna now. Oh, she’ll be overjoyed…

            You leave the bedroom and shut the door behind you. You wash the knife in the sink with bleach and scrub your hands until the blood is gone. You put the soup back on the burner to warm up, being mindful of the time, and then you settle in the cactus chair in the living room, shoving your hand into your pants, masturbating furiously, coming with a strangled shout five minutes later. After, you wash your hands again and bring out plates and forks for the cake, which you slice carefully into triangles. You eat yours at the table; the frosting is sweet and sticks to the corners of your mouth. Despite the elation still flowing through you, your hands are steady, and your heart is beginning to calm.

            The clock strikes eight just as you hear Anna’s key in the door. You abandon your cake and sit in the cactus chair.

            “Surprise!” you shout when she’s in view, causing her to jump.

            “Oh, Jesus!” Anna says, setting her hand over her heart. “You scared me. What…?” She looks closely at you. “You’re not ill, after all?”

            You shrug. “False alarm?”

            “Jesus.” It’s then she notices the balloons. “What’re these? How did you get in?”

            “Spare keys should be hidden better. And these?” You tug a balloon down. “A celebration. I got you cake. Do you want a slice?” You get up and pick a slice from the box, set it on her plate.

            “Oksana…”

            “Come on, it’s delicious. You like chocolate.”

            “There’s nothing to celebrate, Oksana,” Anna says.

            “Oh, there is! Come on.” You take her hand, lead her to the bedroom.

            “Have you bought me something? Is that what this surprise is?” She’s smiling despite it all. It’ll grow wider when she sees what you’ve given her.

            You open the door, gesture for her to look inside, your heart in your throat.

            Her smile vanishes like fog, and she screams.

 

            “Oh my god, oh my god oh my _god…”_ She’s shaking him. “Wake up!” Her hands are red with his blood. And her face is a mask of many emotions, wet with tears. “What have you done?!” she screams at you. “What have you done!”

            “I did it for _you_!” you shout back. “No walls between us now, are there? Aren’t I something now?”

            “You sick girl!” Those bloody hands are in your hair, pulling. She manages to control herself, go to the kitchen. She picks up the phone.

            “What are you doing?” you ask lowly, throat clogged. She doesn’t answer. Her chin is trembling. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

            Within an hour the apartment becomes a crime scene and filled with people in uniform. You and Anna are led outside into the cold night, and as an officer ducks you into the back of a car, she doesn’t even watch.

 

* * *

 

 

_Interlude: bad news_

**_Anna_ **

It’s a bitter day, and Anna Leonova has just learned that Oksana is dead.

            The news came from man with salt and pepper hair who knocked on her door and introduced himself as Konstantin. Tough-looking, fat, an interesting voice. He put it to her plainly.

            “What?” Anna repeats. “How?”

            “Suicide,” Konstantin replies. “Hung herself in her cell.”

            She won’t cry in front of this stranger. Absolutely not.

            “I’m sorry. I know she meant something to you.”

            Anna nods. “Yes,” she manages, barely a whisper. “I was… I was her teacher.”

            Konstantin looks around the place. “It’s always too bad that bad news must be delivered in kitchens.” He sighs. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Leonova.”

            She doesn’t correct him. Doesn’t have the strength to. She just leads him to the door and tells him, “Thank you for telling me.”

            Anna weeps when it’s shut. Weeps for Max, poor, gentle Max who didn’t deserve it; weeps for Oksana in a mix of relief and grief, for the girl deserved death but Anna had been in love with her too; weeps for her life, which was so quickly destroyed and won’t ever be the same.

 

_She looks good (even when trembling)_

**_Villanelle_ **

Eve Polastri is sopping wet, and her form-fitting dress is even more so. Still, you’re pleased to see that she’s wearing your gift, that it looks amazing. You sit, legs spread and comfortable, at her kitchen table while she warms up leftover shepherd’s pie in the microwave.

            “You’re shaking,” you say.

            “Yeah, well…” 

            “Put on something from there.” You point to the rack on the wall, where a few items hang. “I won’t look.”

            But you do. And when you notice that the wet, tight dress is going to be a struggle for one person to get off, you rise from your chair. You’re careful to keep your fingers away from her skin even though they itch to run over it. You take in her hair and the way it cascades over her bare shoulders, take in her almost-nudity. The words escape before you can stop them. “You have a very nice body.” It’s beautiful, like everything else about her. You take the dress back to your chair with you and watch her pull on a strange sweater-shirt thing and pants.

            “Should I lay the table?” you ask when she’s decent.

            “No,” she says, turning away, to the silverware drawer, “you’re my guest.” Her arms move to get forks. Then they move slower—she’s getting a knife. She tucks it into the waistband of her pants.

            “You don’t want that to slip.” She freezes; you see her shoulders sag in defeat. “You can hold onto it, if it makes you feel better.” It’s disappointing, Eve thinking she needs some sort of weapon when you aren’t here to kill her. You wish there wasn’t tension but there is, even when the shepherd’s pie is warm. You eat while she doesn’t touch anything. The pie is delicious, but she isn’t the one who made it.

            Then she’s talking about you, so satisfied to know your name, and even goes as far to call you a psychopath. It stings, just a little, and you pull your face into the sad drama mask when she asks if you’re upset. And later, she surprises you by going for the knife. Her movements are unpracticed, easy to block, but still impressive. You pin her to the fridge, point the knife right at the hollow of her throat. She’s frozen, fear making her eyes glow. “It’s worse,” you say, “when I put it through slowly. Don’t make me.” You’re close enough that you can smell her, and she smells like herself, but with your favorite perfume over it. You lean to her and she tilts her head up and to the side—like you’re going to kiss her instead—and there it is, on her neck. You let out a pleased sound, and even though it’s rhetorical, you ask, “Are you wearing it?” You realize that’s what she would smell like if ever you found yourselves in bed, that the perfume would linger on her skin long after she got dressed. The thought lingers after she’s threatened you and after you’ve stolen her phone and taken your leave from her house with her dress. After all, you can afford to get her another one.

 

_Epilogue: She wields a knife_

**_Anna_ **

It’s just as that Eve Polastri woman had said. Oksana is alive. She’s in Anna’s apartment, her face bloodied and bruised, wearing a nude pink shirt covered by something that looks like sheep’s skin, and pointing a gun right at her. It’s been eight years. She’s older, beautiful and blonde, but looks the same. It hurts. It hurts so badly. And she realizes that she’s afraid.

            “Let me clean your face,” Anna hears herself say. “Just some disinfectant.” Why, after all this time? Why can she not curse this grown woman out like she wanted to? The words have been there ever since she called Oksana a sick girl, they’re _right there_ when she digs through the drawer and pulls her own gun from it.

            “Did you two used to go out?” the girl, Irina, asks.

            “She seduced me,” they say at the same time, and Anna narrows her eyes. “It was _you_ ,” she says, for it had been, in a way. It was always Oksana who initiated the touches, always her with the sweet letters written by someone with an impressive skill with words, always in French. She’d been seduced, fell into how wrong it was but couldn’t resist because she liked Oksana from the beginning, and then… and then goddamn, she had to fall in love. Was still in love, but not like before. It was a dim candle flame compared to the housefire it once was.

            “Fine,” Oksana says. “But can you blame me?”

            “All these years I hoped—no, _prayed_ —you would be alive just so I could shoot you myself.” She loads the gun. Her hands are shaking. Oksana is unfazed.

            “You can’t kill me,” Oksana says at last, raising her gun so that the barrel is pointed right at Anna’s heart, “but I can kill you.”

            Her chest tightens—her heart breaking all over again. “No.”

            “I’m sorry, but yes.”

            She’ll make this easy, then. She points the gun at herself instead.

 

**_Villanelle_ **

The knife is in you. The pressure, Eve’s full weight behind it, hurts. Hurts worse than the night Anna had called you a sick girl, hurts worse than the moment you’d witnessed her blow her own brains out. “I really liked you,” you say. “It hurts,” you say. “Don’t pull it.”

            She does. It feels like fire, and it makes you scream, in both pain and anger. “What did I just say?!”

            Oh, you could fucking kill her. Right the fuck now. She’s rushing into your kitchen for towels, anything that’ll stop the warm flow of blood. You find your gun and you shoot at her, but you miss. And you miss. And you miss.

            Somehow you manage to stumble away from the scene. Somehow you’re in the back of a cab, still conscious, managing to laugh about how lives are always ruined with knives.

 

****

You still think about that moment sometimes, the one that’d followed after you’d ordered Irina to search for money. She was in the bedroom, searching underneath the bed, and you crouched beside Anna’s still body, admiring the spread of blood underneath her hair, the small entry wound underneath her chin. She could’ve been sleeping. You put a strand of hair behind her ear, like you had the morning after the Debussy concert, when her naked body was illuminated by the morning sun and you stared and stared and stared. Something unpleasant stirred in your gut, unidentifiable. She was still warm.

            “She’s dead,” Irina said when she came back from the bedroom, stacks of bills clutched in her small pale hands.

            “I know,” you snapped. “Give me that.”

            You think, now, that you were saying goodbye both to her and to someone you had once been.


	2. One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle is back in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of an epilogue to an epilogue; I added it as a chapter because it's part of this work.   
> Content warning: Just sex. 
> 
> Somewhat edited but not all that thoroughly, so all mistakes are mine. Thank you for reading, and for the encouragement about this little thing.

You’ve watched Eve carefully over the last year, mostly from afar. For someone who works at a high-security place, her own security habits are surprisingly lax. It’s easy to get into her phone and her home computer. You’ve seen the things she’s working on, the places she goes when she’s not trapped at the office.

            You’re back in London now and the weather is dreary and stormy. You’ve tracked Eve to a concert hall; the posters outside advertise “An English Summer: Music by Various Composers,” and a list follows. Chopin, Mozart, Vaughn Williams, Holst, and others. Well-dressed people file out of the concert hall, all bearing umbrellas of various dark colors. You pace just outside the doors, suddenly wishing for one of Konstantin’s cigarettes. Avoiding meeting Eve for a year was deliberate, and the entire time there was an ache for her, even after she’d stabbed you and taken your trust with her. She’s at a concert hall and you are waiting for her and it’s one of those things that leaves you puzzled. You know why you kill. You’re good at it, the best, even. You know why you sleep with desirable people, with women with untamed hair. It’s a fun pastime, up until they submit, or until they want you to stay in their lives for more than a few days. But you don’t know why you’re here. Why you’d taken the goddamn train just to stand here in the rain for Eve when you still want to hurt her back in some way. Because she doesn’t take shit from you? Because she refuses to submit herself, unlike your affairs? Because she thinks of you as often as you think of her?

            You were chasing ghosts around your head and now here she comes, shrugging a navy blue coat back on over a dress. You round the pillar so that she doesn’t see you when she comes out of the entryway. Her voice stands out amongst the din.

            “I actually enjoyed that,” she says. “I can’t choose a favorite.”

            “They all blend together for me,” says someone else, a younger man.

            “Kenny isn’t very into classical,” another woman says. Those two must be friends of Eve’s, or co-workers. “But he enjoyed it, right? Even though I practically hauled you along?”

            “It was nice.”

            “Thank you for the company,” Eve tells them, and you like the way her voice sounds when there’s a smile in it.

            You lean around the pillar to see that they’ve parted ways; the woman Eve was talking to and the young man, who must be Kenny, are headed east. She also has lovely hair, and glowing, dark skin, and quite a pleasant smile. But she holds your attention for only a few seconds, and then you’re following Eve. Her stride is quick but short, little heels click-clacking on the cement; it doesn’t take you long to get behind her.

            “I never took you for a classical music person,” you say, and she jumps, freezes. “A new fad?”

            “I… suppose so,” Eve says.

            “Oh, Eve Polastri, you haven’t seen me for a year and you greet me by not looking at me?”

            She turns. There’s darker makeup around her eyes to bring them out, and a shade of darker red lipstick on her lips. So beautiful, you think, biting your lip. “Hello, Villanelle,” she says.

            “Hello Eve.” You open your umbrella and offer her your arm. “Shall we walk? You’re taking the tube, right?”

            She tucks her hand in the crook of your elbow, and even if the weight is reluctant, it still feels nice. Right. “Do you even know where I live?” she asks.

            “Yes.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Courteous of my stalker to walk me home.”

            “Speak for yourself. You still tried to find me even when you were swamped with homework like a poor schoolgirl.” You run your eyes over her. She’s wearing colors that compliment her. And her hair, still so fabulous, has a little more grey in it. “You look really nice,” you tell her softly.

            Her eyes run over you in return. “You too.” She clears her throat, looks ahead. “How’s the wound?”

            “Healed. You left your mark. How’s the husband?”

            “Gone,” she says simply, and you blow through your lips.

            “Seems we’ve both left marks, haven’t we? Though I would argue the loss of your husband is hardly my fault.”

            “It _is_ your fault.”

            “You haven’t ever done yoga, have you?” you say.

            “What?”

            “Yoga is about listening to your body, learning to look inward, all that sort-of-spiritual bullshit.”

            “So you’re saying I haven’t learned to look inward?”

            “Yes. Unless you masturbate to me too.”

            She grips your arm and shoves you into the wall. It gains a few looks, but otherwise you’re ignored. Her gloved fists clench the sides of your coat. “God… _fuck_ you,” Eve hisses.

            “You look like you want to hit me.” Oh, there’s so much anger simmering in those brown eyes of hers. “Are you going to hit me, Eve?”

            She does, right below your collarbones, and then she kisses you. A hard, angry kiss, but even then, her lips are soft. “Fuck you,” she repeats, and your lips meet again. You cup her face, deepen it. You won’t slip your tongue between her lips, not here. She pulls away and her breath is short. You stare at each other for what feels like forever. You won’t ever tire of staring at her. “Take me home,” Eve says at last.

 

            Eve kisses so passionately, so hurriedly, it almost knocks you over. Almost. You meet her, kissing back just as feverishly. You’d barely made it through the door before you were on each other again, and somehow you’ve ended up a pile near the kitchen floor, both your coats spread out like they’re picnic blankets.

            “Do you want to know where I’ve been?” you ask.

            Eve shakes her head. “No.”

            “Not even about what I did?”

            “I have my guesses.”

            “Wow. What a rude welcome this is.” You lean to kiss her again, softer this time, and she lets you slide your hands underneath her sweater. “You want me.”

            “Yes. God, just… do something.”

            You take your clothes off, and then hers. You let her stare, liking the way her gaze feels as it runs over you, and she lets you stare in return. When you fall into her you nearly moan; she feels more beautiful than you ever imagined. You touch every part of her, her hair, her throat, her shoulders, her breasts, her hips. You let your lips explore her bare skin, kissing hungrily, cataloguing what she likes.

            “I was so stupid,” Eve says suddenly. Your lips are near a breast.

            “Tell me,” you say.

            “I nearly bought an extra ticket. For the seat next to mine.”

            Some matter in the universe must’ve vibrated and given her a feeling. You go back to kissing her, and you take her nipple into your mouth. Her hips rise into yours as she gasps. She holds your head there, fingers digging into your hair. Your nails are digging into her thighs. You pull away to say, “Why?”

            “Some fucking hope you’d magically show up.”

            Your heart swims, just like the night something had changed between you and Anna, only… this feels different. Different in a way you can’t explain. She waited for you. You can only kiss her again and slide lower, her hands almost shoving you. You don’t ask how she likes it; you think words would spoil something, and so you go right in. She moans, you return it, and take her in earnest. You watch her face and the way her chest heaves and how she throws an arm over her eyes when you slip inside her. She’s beautiful. You think you could stay here forever if it meant you could stare. Eventually you close your eyes and spread your hands across the plane of her stomach, absorbing her pleasured sounds, the way her muscles tense when her hips arch into you. One hand leaves your hair and grips a coat while the other pulls until your scalp stings; her breath shudders, shallow gasps, and the loud moan as she goes over the edge hits you like a sucker-punch. You kiss her through it, shove your own hand between your legs; it takes two minutes before you follow, muffling a groan against her thigh.

            You lay there, sprawled on the floor, panting and sweaty and blissfully unaware of the world outside. Eve half-drags you until you’re lying beside her, supported on an elbow. She runs her fingertips over your lips.

            “Don’t want anything back?” she asks.

            You shake your head no. “I do think you owe me an apology.”

            “I’ll tell it to your ego.”

            You frown. “Don’t be rude, Eve Polastri. It’s a poor way to repay someone who’s given you the best orgasm of your life.” She blushes. You’d dare to call it cute. You reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “Could we get one thing straight?”

            “Yes.”

            “Do you masturbate about me?”

            She shoves you away and gets up from the floor, snatching her coat from underneath you. You smile at her retreating back. It’s as good an answer as you’re going to get.

**Author's Note:**

> If there is interest, I'll post a tiny second chapter, but for now, I'll leave it at this.


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